


Time Yet

by sc010f



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:03:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade comes home late. Mycroft is waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Yet

It was late when he finally let himself into his flat – or, very early, according to the clock on the stove, glowing a bright green 03.30.

Too late for… no, he'd not have come over after the text at 00.18. Not when he had the world to run. Greg allowed himself a small smile and peeled off his suit jacket, hanging it on the back of a kitchen chair. He opened the fridge, squinting in the brightness.

Milk? Ribena? Beer? His stomach churned at the thought.

He sighed and shut the door. Bed seemed the best option, the sensible one, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face.

Joanna Davis, twenty-two, just out of uni, bright future ahead of her, murdered, partially dismembered and left to rot.

Sherlock had declared the case _boring_ , but consented to come – and of course there'd been the typical Sherlockian drama – shouting at Anderson, sneering at Sally, John being John, and they were no closer to finding a killer. The crow of triumph when he found the foot in the hearth nearly drove Greg to punching Sherlock. John almost did it for him, pulling him away from the crime scene.

"Shit," Greg muttered as his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the hallway and he saw a light glimmering from his bedroom. He must have left the bedside light on when he'd left this morning at – Christ, when was it? Six-thirty?

"Fuck," he said for good measure, shuffling to the doorway. And then he stopped.

Stretched out and asleep on his stomach lay Mycroft, arms wrapped around a pillow.

Greg sat on the edge of the bed and toed off his shoes, watching him.

Three months, and he'd yet to tire of watching his lover sleep. Tonight, Mycroft must have intended to strip down completely, but sleep had overtaken him before he'd managed much more than his shirt and vest. Even his braces were still attached to his trousers.

Mycroft snored gently and Greg smiled, watching his back rise and fall – he'd made it his mission to learn every inch of the other man – every curve, every plane. The small of his back, not a v-shape, softer about the middle and sides – a softness that belied the frightening hardness of the man; the scattering of freckles across the shoulder blades, an angry, livid scar from an accident he didn't talk about, the broadness of the shoulders, concealed by the bespoke clothing – preserving the myth of a government functionary.

But Greg knew better.

"You're finally home," Mycroft said, his eyes still closed.  
"Yeah, hell of a night."

Mycroft smiled. "I apologize for falling asleep in your bed without you." He opened his eyes and rolled over, sliding up to a seated position.

"Ah, no, it's okay, I didn't think you'd be here at all."

"Gregory…" Mycroft pushed himself off the bed. Squatting before Greg, he took his face in his hands and pressed a kiss to his lips.

"Christ, but you feel good," he murmured softly.

"Come to bed. We have a few hours yet," Mycroft whispered, rising and pulling Greg with him.

"Not just yet," he replied. "There's something I need to do first."

Mycroft stepped back, but Greg followed him.

"I want to – I want to do _this_ ," Greg said, pressing his lips to Mycroft's shoulder. "And this." A kiss along the clavicle, down the sternum. "And this, and this." kisses and licks, first to one nipple and the other. Another sprinkling of hair, down to the stomach.

"Gregory," Mycroft groaned.

"Yes," Greg murmured, using teeth, tongue, and lips to worship the skin beneath him – to trace the waistband of the trousers, sinking slowly to his knees (not as limber as he once was) to undo the trousers, pull them down, reach for the shorts, and press his face against the other man's thigh.

"Gregory, come to bed."

"I want to…" Greg sat back on his heels, wondering how he could explain his desires, how badly he burned – burned to bury himself in the other man, never to return – to climb into another human, oblivious of the cruelty he'd seen, to forget.

Mycroft stretched out his hand, and drew him upwards, kissing him fiercely: teeth and tongue.

"I know," he said, hands busy with the buttons on Greg's shirt, running down his chest, peeling away the layers of shirt and vest, tugging at the belt and the trouser fastenings. "Come to bed," he murmured into Greg's mouth. "We have time, yet."

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, not mine, no money.
> 
> Look, ma! I wrote Mystrade!
> 
> Special thanks to Annietalbot, Bluestocking79, and Machshefa for their usual round of hand-holding and betae.


End file.
